


Slipping

by yuletide_archivist



Category: The Mark of Zorro (1940)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-22
Updated: 2003-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1638305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One is dangerous because he is bored; the other is dangerous because he only pretends to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slipping

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Elke Tanzer

 

 

"I must admit, I thought you were lying." 

Diego choked mid-swallow. Wine stung his throat and the inside of his nose, and sprayed the front of his shirt. He set the bottle down, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Rapid blinking revealed Captain Pasquale smirking down at him. Oh dear. 

"Lying about what?" he coughed. 

"Being a cadet. Quintero's niece comes off as more military than you, but you do drink like a soldier, at the very least." 

"I'm so glad you think so." Diego had to fight to cover his genuine relief; if anyone were to find him out, it would be El Capitan. He had a sudden urge to check himself in the mirror, to make certain he had removed every article of dusty black. Instead he proffered the wine. "Would you care to join me?" 

Pasquale raised up a bottle. "I have already made my own raid on the alcade's cellars." The slightly exaggerated care as he lowered himself onto the balcony bench was the only visible effect of the bottle's half-empty sloshing. "However, I don't wish to walk any further." 

Diego nodded and took another swig. Somewhere on the ground, there was a burst of cheering as a song ended. 

"Why aren't you down there?" Pasquale asked him, "I should think a masque would be right up your alley." 

Don Diego Vega gave a beautifully frivolous hand-flick. "They bore me," he said airily. And Lolita wanted him to go as Zorro, and Zorro had wanted to let her convince him. And the thought of remembering to wear both masks at once had provoked an immediate and fierce longing for oblivion. "And you?" 

"The same reason." It seemed to Diego that a man such as Pasquale had earned the right to be foul in any and all circumstances. He was nowhere near deep enough in his cups to say it, however. 

They drank in silence for some time, Diego enjoying the steadily more sodden state of his head. Very soon now he could be a simple fool, amused just by his own inability to walk a straight line. He needed that, tonight; Senor Fox was still too close to the skin, refusing to be satisfied with playacting, refusing to be caged. He needed to be drowned before he did irreparable damage. Diego wondered if it was rude to be thinking of oneself in the third person. 

Unfortunately, the bottle's only answer to that last thought was a gurgle. He spat out a few choice peon curses and lurched to his feet. 

"Such language," the captain chided, "do you kiss your madre with that mouth?" 

"Yes, and you may kiss my ass with yours," Diego shot back, not nearly as distressed at his own daring as he should be. 

Pasquale merely raised an eyebrow enviably high (Diego once tried to imitate the move in the mirror and got a face cramp for his trouble) and gave him a slow smile. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" 

Diego blinked. He felt confusion, and an intense desire to stab the man with a sword. The latter was nothing new; hoping to dispel the former he asked, "What did you say?" 

"I said you'd like that, wouldn't you?" 

"I'd like what . . . Oh my God!" Shock, less horror and outrage than there should be, and mounting alarm because the most dangerous man Diego had ever met was standing and prowling towards him, leering. He backpedaled but it wasn't going to be fast enough, Pasquale knew how to handle California wine better than he did, and then Diego's back smacked into a wall and it occurred to him that he was in trouble. 

Callused hands touched the wall on either side of his head, and that lazy gaze fixed on him. "What else would you like, Don Diego?" Diego thought maybe for all Padre Felipe's assurances to the contrary, God really did hate him. Why else would this happen on the very night when Diego tired of pretending? 

He should not be breathing so hard. "I would like..." To run your puppet out of my father's house. To cross swords with you and see your face when I win. To do what you do: let everyone know _exactly_ who I am. "I..." 

"Too slow, Don Diego." Fumes of smoke and wine, and a hard mouth on his, and apparently Diego would like this, too.   
 

* * *

  


Esteban had not expected this. 

Imagined it, certainly ; who could not? Diego's manner all but begged one to picture his indolent face tightening with passion, his idle prattling replaced with frantic whines or, better still, choked silence. The prospect had entertained Esteban on more than one itchy, sweltering night. But the space between thought and deed, and even more between fantasy and reality, was a shock even through the wine's haze. 

He kissed a boy, and found himself being kissed by a man. The back under his palms was not the smooth flesh of a healthy young caballero, but the thin skin and hard muscle of a fighter like himself. He slid one hand down to Diego's ass, and the responding groan was less pleased than hungry. Challenging. 

So. A surprise, then, but not an unwelcome one. Esteban hoped he would remember enough to think on it in the morning. For now, he ground closer and stroked his tongue into Diego's mouth, working the younger man's shirt out of his trousers. When he reached a nipple with his nails, Diego tore his mouth away and slammed his head back against the wall none too lightly. Pinching got him a beautiful yelp, buck of slim hips and - oh - very, very hard cock. Esteban lowered his mouth to the bared brown neck, sucked and licked as he worked open the wide sash and laced trousers, smelling dust and sweat. Diego hummed impatiently, mindless sound of enjoyment, and locked his arms around Esteban's shoulders. 

The arch of Diego's body when Esteban wrapped a hand around his cock reminded him of the first time he saw a man badly wounded, whole body trying to escape itself. This wasn't going to take long at all. A few quick strokes, circling the head and sliding down the shaft, and Diego was trying to climb his torso, held up only by Esteban and the wall. Esteban found the racing pulse on Diego's throat and bit down sharply. Diego jerked once and his mouth fell open. So close, so lost - beautiful. Esteban wanted to keep him that way until he cried, but wine made him impatient. He stroked harder, pushing Diego up into orgasm and taking the long, loud groan into his mouth as his due. When it was over he used the end of Diego's sash to clean them up. His erection throbbed with every beat of his heart. 

Soon enough Diego stirred, placing more weight on his own feet, but still leaning against Esteban's body more than necessary. Still drawn to this clash of bodies just as Esteban was. "Suck me," he whispered into Diego's black curls, and the younger man shivered and slid dreamily downward, still clutching at Esteban's body for support. He landed on his knees, and Esteban placed one hand on the wall for support as they both struggled with his clothing. He takes orders well, too, he thought faintly but didn't say. 

Nowhere near quickly enough, Diego lapped at the head of his cock for the first time. Esteban had to brace his other hand on the wall as well. Diego held his hips in hands hard with calluses that shouldn't be there, and - and pushed back the foreskin with his lips, tonguing the slit, but it felt more as if someone had looped his balls with a hot wire and yanked them against his body most unexpectedly. His lower back clenched with frustration. Santa Maria, what had the man done to him? It never happened this fast! 

Thankfully Diego seemed to tire of that and started licking farther down, then back up, and yes, God, _finally_ opening that sweet, smart mouth and taking him in. Esteban eased forward with a growl that bottomed out into a moan when Diego swallowed. Another swallow and it seemed as if the moans were being pulled from the bottom of his chest by force. Another and he felt the pressure gathering in his loins, called there faster than he ever would have thought possible. His eyes flew open and he looked down in shock. 

Diego was staring up at him, mouth flush against his groin, and his eyes were bright and cold as a new blade, deadly sharp eyes pinning Esteban, closing his chest with thrilling fear. The pressure burst, flooded him, locking up all his muscles, and he could feel those eyes even with his own closed, even as he came hard down Diego's smooth, wondrous throat. 

Then it was a challenge just to stay standing, breathing fast, leaning against the wall and feeling the slow, deep pound of his heart while Diego tucked him back in, though he didn't try to do up Esteban's trousers. Lassitude and wine kept him limp and still when Diego tittered nervously, "Well, I'm off. I need another bottle," with his eyes fixed on the ground. Esteban nodded weakly, opened his mouth to say - he had no idea, something - but Diego slipped away as quickly as a fox. 

There was still some wine left in his own bottle; he would stay right here. 

 


End file.
